


After the Fall

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Could be read as friendship or more, Gen, Minor Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:36:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1573016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re in the air when Captain Rogers’ voice broadcasts through their comm link with HQ. </p><p>Cap 2 spoilers - beware!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this was written post Cap 2, but before I'd caught up with SHIELD - as such, this deals with the aftermath from Phil Coulson's point of view and has since been thoroughly jossed, with no spoilers for SHIELD.
> 
> Chapter 2 will be up in a few days - enjoy :)

They’re in the air when Captain Rogers’ voice broadcasts through their comm link with HQ. It changes everything.

Skye is the only one acting vaguely normal. She’s pottering around the kitchen, making cups of tea for a stricken Fitzsimmons. Ward has disappeared – presumably to his bunk, and Coulson should probably check on him but he can’t think right now – and May is still sitting in her pilot seat, despite the fact that they landed over an hour ago.

“AC?” asks Skye. Her voice is kind, and she’s holding out a mug of warm liquid. He’s not much of a tea drinker but he takes it, drinks a gulp that burns his throat and detects under the heat a burn of a different kind. She’s laced it with some kind of alcohol. At his questioning eyebrow, she shrugs. “Does it really matter? I assume we’re not chasing after that Centipede cell now.”

They should be; that’s the thing. Centipede are bad; that’s not in doubt. They perform questionable experiments, enslave people against their will and just generally behave like an evil organisation. But if they go after them now they’re alone. There’s no back-up, but more than that, there’s no legitimacy. They’d be vigilantes, and while that can have its place, it’s not a life he wants for his team. Except, well – they’re not his team anymore, are they?

“I think you should make some sort of speech.”

“This isn’t a wedding, Skye. It’s a funeral.”

“It’s an organisation – a job. And I get it, sir – this is your life, is all your lives. But if that’s what matters, then you have to be that. That means you’re still boss, and you have to make sure them lot-“ she jabs a finger to the couches where Fitzsimmons are huddled into each other “-are ok.”

“Even if I’m not?”

“You can fall apart later, AC. I promise. But not now.”

She’s right, of course. If nothing else, he can’t just disband the team here. They’d touched down in a small air base in Spain after hearing the call and he should at least take them home. Wherever, or whatever, that was.

“Go get Ward and May.”

 

\--

“… so I think it’s safe to say that none of us have a job right now. We do, however, still have this plane and that means I can get you all home, or to wherever you want to go.” The faces around him are dull and lifeless. He thinks Simmons has been crying. Possibly Ward too. “It’s getting late. I suggest you all take the night to think about what you want to do. We’ll reconvene at 0900 hours.”

They filter out of the room, and he pretends not to notice Fitz follow Simmons into her bunk. He imagines it’s a comfort thing rather than anything else, but it’s not like there are any fraternisation rules when there’s no organisation anyway.

“AC?”

“I’m not really an Agent anymore, Skye.”

“Maybe, but ‘C’ just sounds weird. And I couldn’t call you Phil.” She flops down cross-legged on the sofa. “Do you think there’s any chance of getting my van back?”

He sits next to her. If they’d never picked her up, her life wouldn’t be so disrupted now. “No,” he answers honestly. “It’s in a SHIELD lock-up. It could have been destroyed, and even if it’s not, the chances of finding it and getting it back to you are slim.”

She nods, and he can see it what the answer she was expecting. “SHIELD has paid me pretty well the last few months. I can get a new van.”

“Is that your plan then?”

“Why not? I’ve only been out of the hacker-life for a little while, Coulson. I can slip back in no problem.” They’re silent for a few minutes. He really should go to bed or figure out what to do with his own life now his career is in tatters, but Skye is picking at her nails and the silence is comfortable rather than awkward. Soon he won’t be seeing her every day. He might not see her ever.

“In New York?” He thinks that’s where he might go. It’s as much home as anywhere else is. He has a favourite coffee shop, so that’s a step.

Skye hums. “Maybe. That’s the good thing about living in a van – you can go wherever you want to. Kind of like this.” She flops her head back and looks around at the plane. “Guess I’m destined to constantly call vehicles my home!” She grins at him and he attempts a smile back. “I actually had an idea. Fitzsimmons – you saw them, they’re pretty cut up – I think they’re worried about not being able to play with all the latest science-y toys when they go back home.”

Phil nods; it’s true that SHIELD is – was – one of the top institutions for scientific discovery in the world.

“You know Tony Stark, right?”

“He thinks I’m dead, but yes.”

She waves that point away. “Stark Industries would be the best place for them. Much as I hate to advocate big business.”

It’s… actually it’s not a bad idea. And it’s also not Tony he’d have to convince, it’s Pepper, which would almost certainly be less of a headache.

“I’ll look into it,” he promises. “Any big ideas for Ward and May?”

“May can sort herself out,” she says. “I think us trying to help would actually do more harm than good. I bet she’ll just disappear off the radar for a while, then get an office job somewhere. She was in the archives before you got her on the bus, right?” He nods. She’s probably right. “I have no idea about Ward,” she shrugs.

Phil pats her on the knee and stands up. “We don’t have to have all the answers,” he says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

\--

They get in the air sharpish the next morning, the general consensus being a return to New York before they all figure out their lives from there. They touchdown at midday thanks to the time difference, and as Skye predicted, May disembarks within seconds. A curt goodbye and she’s gone. Phil idly wonders if he’ll see her again. They were friends, of a sort, but work friendships often don’t last when work is over.

“I’ll be going then sir.” Ward looks more himself this morning; stoic, strong. He has a rucksack slung over one shoulder and a suit bag over his arm.

“Where will you go?” Phil asks, but Ward just shrugs. “Take this,” Phil advises. It’s a piece of paper with his personal mobile number scrawled on it. He’s not sure what, if anything, he could do to help Ward, but it makes him feel better to not just abandon his team.

Ward takes the paper and quirks one side of his mouth up; close enough to a real smile. “Thanks sir, but I’d better go. Skye already attacked me once today. Another hug and I’d be forced to use violence.”

Phil smiles; “Don’t be a stranger,” he asks, as Ward descends the steps. Ward waves one arm above his head as he crosses the tarmac of the runway, but doesn’t turn. Phil sighs and returns to the lounge area where the three ‘kids’ are waiting. “Right. Next stop Stark Industries.”

 

\--

“ _Phil?”_

“ _Agent?!”_

Ah. So Phil had chosen to reveal his not-death to Pepper (in the company of three of his team – Skye was hanging around until FitzSimmons were sorted, apparently) on the one day Pepper had managed to bully Tony into the office. This was… unfortunate.

“What – you’re-“

“Looking good for a dead ma-“

“Oh _Phil,”_ he’s engulfed in Pepper’s arms. She smells just as she always did. It’s reassuring, but she’s still holding on to him, Tony’s raging and Skye’s failing to stifle her sniggering. He gently untangles himself, only to be shoved from the side by Tony.

“We had a wake for you,” he hisses. “Pepper _cried_. She’s crying now!” Another shove, but it’s to the shoulder and Phil realises Tony’s avoiding any area where the staff might have struck. Pepper is crying, Phil realises. She’s not making any sound, but her face is wet and her eyes red.

“I’m sorry,” starts Phil, but he doesn’t really know where to go from there. It was for SHIELD? Because that will go down well now. “Fury asked me,” he says. “I was dead, for a while. Then I needed a long time to recover. By the time I was well enough, it made more sense for me to stay dead. Although I may not have been as ‘out of the system’ as I needed to be, in hindsight.”

Tony has his arms crossed and his mouth firmly shut. It’s unnerving, if sort of peaceful.

“Can we discuss this later?” Phil asks. “I’m actually here on other business.”

“You mean the reason you’ve brought waifs and strays into my office?”

“It’s my office,” Pepper cuts in. “Please, everyone, take a seat.” She’s fixed her eye makeup while he was apologising and looks calm and collected again. “Tony, please ask Jeanne to bring in an extra chair. Phil – go ahead.”

It’s a productive meeting in the end, despite its emotional start. After a short interview (with Tony asking some technical questions and a demonstration of the night-night gun – Skye sleeps peacefully on the floor for a while, recovering) Pepper hires both Fitz and Simmons for the R&D department. It’s a six-month deal to start with, but with the expectation of a permanent role when the contract ends, assuming they haven’t revealed themselves as HYDRA operatives. She takes Phil’s character reference as guarantee that they’re not. Once awake, she also offers Skye a place in their technology division, but the hacker declines and Phil and Skye leave together. Skye waves to Fitzsimmons cheesily through the glass walls. By the time they reach street level, the satisfaction of placing two of his team in stable jobs has waned slightly.

“I get it. It’s like admitting it’s over,” says Skye out of nowhere. “I enjoyed it, you know. I know complained about training and questioned SHIELD decisions all the time-“

“-rightly, as it turns out-“

“-but this was the best few months I’ve had in a long time.” She shoves her hands in her jeans pockets. It makes her shoulders hunch slightly. “So I’m going to just go, because otherwise you’ll have a Skye-shaped shadow for the rest of your life.” She laughs, but it sounds a bit forced and her eyes are sad. “There’s a used-car dealer just a few stops along the subway from here.” She hugs him, short but tight, and he surprises himself by squeezing back. Guess he’s not her boss anymore, just a friend. “Look me up sometime – I’m never out of signal range,” she chirps, smile more natural this time. He grins back, and she skips down the steps to the subway; out of his life, for now at least.

That’s it – team all cared for and disbanded. Now what? Find a place to live, probably. Phil tucks his hands into his pockets, looks about and picks left as a direction to head in. He’s got a few hours to kill/start the search before the letting agents close down for the evening.

“Agent!” Or maybe not.

“Tony,” he acknowledges. Phil’s not sure when he became Tony. He’s sure he was always Stark before, but it doesn’t seem to fit the oil-stained man who worries about his girlfriend crying. And chases him out of a building onto the busy New York street, instead of phoning him and ordering him back.

“Steve told me about SHIELD.” Phil assumed he would have; it’s not a secret after all, actually the exact opposite. How strange that Captain America has become ‘Steve’ to Tony though. Maybe his death did resolve their differences. “And obviously Natasha knows. I emailed Bruce – not the best way of breaking bad news but he never has a phone signal in the Mongolian outback, or wherever he is – and Thor – he’s back by the way – dropped in a few weeks ago so I had his phone number. I told him as soon as I knew.”

Phil sorts through the garble in his head. “Right.”

“But Clint’s off grid. I can’t find him and neither can JARVIS – I think SHIELD must have had him deep undercover, because even Natasha hadn’t heard from him in weeks – although if he’s somehow heard of this maybe he’s purposefully off grid… but then if he hasn’t, he could still be following SHIELD orders when we know they’re helping HYDRA-“

“Why are you telling me this, Tony?”

“Someone has to find him and get him out. You’re at a loose end right now.”

That’s not technically untrue, but he’s not also an agent anymore. Neither is he the Avengers’ handler, or any of that rubbish. He’s just a guy who has – to all intents and purposes – been made redundant and homeless at the same time.

“I don’t have any resources. I have no idea where he is. I don’t even have a place to sleep tonight-“

“So that’s it? You’re not getting him?” Tony’s face is hard and cold. “Stay at the tower tonight, JARVIS will hook you up with everything we know and in the morning you can head on out. Whether it’s to find your teammate or to get yourself a cosy little New York pad – well that’s up to you.”

That’s the stickler, isn’t it? Because Barton is one of his teammates – kind of – and he’s always prided himself on never leaving anyone behind…

Fine. Operation: “Find Barton” is a go, then.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Operation: find Clint Barton.

Phil pulls at his collar, flapping the fabric away from his skin in an effort to find a breeze. He’s wearing light-coloured cargo pants and a linen shirt – typical American-tourist abroad attire – but it’s still stickily hot in the mid-Summer Moroccan afternoon.

He crosses the wide road beside a nun (because it’s a well-known fact that speeding cars always manage to miss hitting nuns) and ducks gratefully into the old town. He gets more looks in here, but the high stone walls block out the sun, and they see enough tourists that he’s not too hassled as long as he stays away from the souks.

“Monsieur?”

An older woman nods at him, smiling happily as she waves a hand over her wares. She’s sitting over a small suitcase filled with individual cigarettes and small packets of sweets. He shakes his head and quickens his pace through the winding alleyways. A bead of sweat runs down his neck into his shirt collar and he rubs one hand briskly over his head.

“Collins!”

He doesn’t react. It’s the name he’s using for this mission but it’s not necessarily the voice of the person he’s looking for. Even outside of SHIELD, he has powerful enemies that could have tracked him here.

“Rabbit.”

Maybe it is his contact. “Stew,” he replies carefully. A hand emerges from a nearby doorway and beckons him over. He ducks through the dark rectangle and tenses while his eyes adjust. He can hear scurrying further into the room but no one comes near him. Finally he acclimatises, and makes out a kitchen. There is a woman in one corner chopping vegetables. She has two children on the floor near her feet, but it’s none of them he’s come to see.

“Please – sit.”

Good, they’re speaking English. His Arabic is patchy, and while he can limp along in French he’s really rather better at the Eastern European languages.

“You Collins?”

“Yes. You’re Samuel?” He’s willing to bet the man is not called Samuel, but then he’s not called Collins either. The man steps forward out of the shadows and sits on one of the seats, nodding. He’s older than expected; his hair more white than dark.

“And you want information. About your friend.”

Phil nods, pulling a photo out of his rucksack. “He’s been out of contact for nearly two months now. He should be fine – he’s been out of touch longer – but something’s happened and I need to at least get a message to him.”

Samuel studies the photo. It’s not a SHIELD identification photo – now, showing SHIELD anything seems like a bad idea all round. It’s one he took on his phone after an op four years ago. Barton and Romanov had been strolling through the centre of Rome on their way to meet him, and they’d seemed so relaxed he hadn’t been able to resist. He’s cropped Romanov out of this copy, obviously.

“There are a few Americans around.”

“This one-“ Phil interrupts himself to put a small sack of money on the table (courtesy of Tony). “Won’t seem like an American.”

Samuel puts a hand over the money bag and draws it across to him, but doesn’t look inside. “There is a white man in the North of the city. Some call him a ghost. He haunts the rooftops near Sidi Bel Abbes.”

Rooftops? That sounds like it might be his man. He searches his mental map of the city and places the mosque. It’s a few miles from here, especially through the medina’s windy streets. “Do they mention any distinguishing features? Does he have a weapon of any kind?”

“I thought you said you were a friend.”

“I am.”

Samuel accepts a glass of mint tea from the woman. She doesn’t offer anything to Phil. “Then you won’t need to worry about weapons. They say he climbs like a spider. That it all I know; it is not a place I go, so I have not seen him.”

Phil tucks the photograph away again. This had been his last lead in this case, but the old man’s words have given him some hope, even if he doesn’t entirely trust him. “Thank you for your help. If you do see him, I would appreciate it if you give him a message?” Samuel spreads his hands with a small smile; even with Phil’s interrogation skills it’s impossible to tell if he’s intending to do so or not. “Tell him Steve is our only shield now.”

Samuel nods, and stays seated as Phil stands. With a last look at the old man, relaxed but hunched in the dimness, he steps back out into the sunshine.

 

\--

Back at his hotel, Phil stands under a cool shower. His instinct had been to run across the city and find Barton straight away – a month or more of trekking across the dust of Europe and Africa has left in him a distinct desire to end this chase. He needs to step back, though. He can’t rush this – he has to have a plan. The water feels almost sinfully good. He scrubs shampoo through his hair and waits until he starts to feel cold before shutting off the water.

Barton’s handler at the time – thank you Tony – had been Agent Sinclair. The woman had definitely been in HQ when everything fell apart and was unfortunately one of the dead, although which side she had been on was not entirely clear. This means Barton hasn’t heard from anyone in SHIELD for over five weeks. He must know something has happened, but will probably assume it’s more low-level; perhaps an op went wrong that tied up his handler and left him alone until someone remembers they should bring him back in. The rumours of SHIELD’s fall seem to have somehow not reached much further into Europe than Britain, and as far as he can tell, Barton hasn’t left Southern Europe (and north Africa) in all that time.

And now, to top things off, he has a dead man chasing him. One time, Barton would have spotted him from whatever perch he might be inhabiting and come to check in without Phil even realising he was in the vicinity. Now, he’s going to have to be a bit more devious.

 

\--

He feels ridiculous, but judging by the lack of stares at least he doesn’t look it. Phil sips his tea and crosses one leg over the other. He’s wearing thick-rimmed glasses under a smart cream-colour Panama hat that matches his chinos and jacket. His hair is dyed dark, but currently hidden anyway, and his shirt is white. His hired moped is leaning against many others of its kind a few metres away. He’s hoping the effect is enough ‘rich European here on business, absorbing the local colour while having a drink’ to let him slip past Hawkeye unnoticed. He’s in the right area and the sun is going down, so now is the optimum time to do a bit of reconnaissance and see if it’s actually him.

“Hello Phil.” A figure drops down into the chair opposite him, immediately slouching into a casual pose. Right. So it’s definitely him.

“Barton,” Phil replies warily, glancing down at the metal barrel pointed directly at his crotch. “Is the gun necessary?”

“Subtler than a bow.”

He looks well, despite the cold expression. He’s tanned and dressed casually in jeans and a black t-shirt. No sign of a SHIELD-issued uniform.

“Imagine my surprise when my dead handler shows up in Marrakesh dressed as an evil oil baron.”

There’s a minute of silence while Phil tries to work out what to say. This perhaps should have been part of the planning process; it’s complicated by the fact that he’s not certain Barton isn’t HYDRA. He would never have suspected Jasper either, after all.

“That was me asking for an explanation, by the way.” Barton picks up a handful of nuts from the bowl on the table and starts tossing them, one by one, into his mouth. The gun remains steady in his other hand.

“Of what?”

It’s a reasonable question. How is he alive? Why is he here? Why has Barton not heard from SHIELD in so long?

“Start with who you are.”

Ah. Ok then. So Barton is under the impression that he’s some sort of stand-in, or body double. “I’m Phil Coulson.”

“Strike one,” Barton laughs, but it’s nothing like his usual warm chuckle. “The real Phil Coulson would have said ‘Agent’. Who are you really.” A slow click and Phil realises the safety has been taken off the gun.

“I’m Phil Coulson-” he repeats.

“Points for consistency-“

“Barton,” he barks. “I’m no longer an agent. That’s related to why I’ve tracked you down.”

“You’ve got the voice right at least.” He still sounds like a cocky interrogator, but Phil was the one who taught him this, and underneath he can detect a slight tremor. A small part of him believes Phil.

“I died. But then I came back – Fury has unbelievable scientists, really.” No need to get into the nitty-gritty of it right now. Intellectually, their work had been amazing. Personally, he’d have rather not go through it. “He asked me to stay technically dead – said there was something big going down but he didn’t know who to trust. Only level sevens and up were allowed to know I was – well, back.” He doesn’t apologise, not like with Pepper and Tony. Barton is – was – an agent, and he knows how this works. He can feel betrayed if he wants to, but if it was the other way round he would have done the same thing.

“Quite a story.”

“It gets better, believe me.” A waiter drops by their table with an extra glass and a new jug of tea. Barton is all smiles, thanking him in Arabic, still with the gun levelled just so. “You’d draw less attention pretending to be a normal tourist.”

“This op was dead in the water weeks ago.” He pours himself a glass of tea. “And the shadowy presence that’s been tracking me across the continents seems to have already found me.”

“Technically, you found me,” Phil corrects. “I had some intel that this might be you, but no proof until you sat in that chair.”

“You were dead, Coulson. And then you were here. I wasn’t going to just keep sitting on some rooftop when I could be getting answers.” He takes a gulp of the sweet liquid. “So talk. You said it gets better.”

Phil relaxes slightly. Barton seems willing to hear him out. “I take it you haven’t heard from SHIELD in a while?” At Barton’s nod, he continues: “There was a problem with HYDRA. It seems some SHIELD agents were actually HYDRA operatives.” Phil studies Barton’s face carefully as the news sinks in, then decides he can trust him. “More than that, actually. HYDRA has been a part of SHIELD since its inception; a sickness that wasn’t noticed because no one knew what healthy felt like.” Barton is silent, fiddling with a stray peanut, and Phil takes that as permission to go on. “Romanov and Captain Rogers staged the attack to bring down SHIELD, along with a civilian friend of Rogers’. Ex-army I believe.” Still silence. “In a nutshell, SHIELD is over. Your handler was killed in the fighting and then no one could track you. Tony tried,” he offers. “It was his notes – and JARVIS – that helped me find you.”

“Is Natasha-“

“She’s fine. Gone off somewhere, but you know what she’s like.”

“And Steve?”

“Also fine. Also gone off somewhere.”

“Together?” Barton grins.

“Not to my knowledge. But then I’m not really in the loop,” he concedes.

Barton stares at his hands for a while, tossing the stray peanut over his shoulder and perfectly into the bag of a loud Italian tourist at the table behind them. He’s taking all this rather well. “So what now?”

“Up to you,” says Phil. “I didn’t come here to drag you back, you just needed to know. You don’t have a job anymore.”

“Not a problem.” It isn’t, Phil knows. Barton is perfectly capable of looking after himself when he has to.

“Do you like Morocco?”

Barton laughs, and it sounds more natural this time. Happier, despite the bad news. “It’s a place, Coulson. It’s fine,” he says. “I won’t stay.”

“Between you and me, I think Tony wants you back. He seems to have a thing for the Avengers.” They’re both silent for a while. “He sent me to get you,” Phil clarifies. “I’m sorry that I didn’t think – I was confused. Lost, if I’m honest. Tony called Thor, emailed Bruce, and engaged me to track you down.” Barton is still silent, but he never was much of a talker. “If you did want to come back, I have the new Jack Reacher novel in my suitcase. Reading for the plane.” Barton had stolen his books on numerous occasions.

“Alright,” he says. “Deal. I’ll come back to New York with you for the novel.”

Phil is surprised to find himself grinning. He hadn’t really expected Barton to come – hadn’t really known that he wanted him to so much. “Okay then,” he says, like this is everyday, not a postponement (or cancellation?) of the time when they never see each other again.

“But Phil. You’re not an Agent. I’m not an Agent. We’ve known each other for nearly eight years and you’ve held my guts in on more than one occasion. I’ve re-set that damn shoulder of yours more times than I can count. For fuck's sake, just call me Clint.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it never quite got to the whole Phil/Clint love; it just didn't seem like this story was going there! I reckon once the trust has built back up they'll make it :)


End file.
